Chapter 4
One year, five weeks and two days later…
‘Here you go,’ said Gerry, dumping my Guinness and Tom’s Boltmaker down on the table. ‘And make sure you tell your old man I bought you both one. He can scratch it off against that pint I owes him.’
‘Why is it you two always seem to owe each other drinks?’ Tom asked, claiming his beer.
‘Because they’re as tight as each other, that’s why,’ said Sue, nudging her husband in the ribs as he sank back into his seat.
He shrugged, wiping a fleck of foam off his moustache. ‘You knew what I was like when you married me.’
Tom groaned. ‘Can you cut out the bickering, guys, just for today? This is our first night out in months, we don’t want to waste it giving you two marriage guidance.’
Gerry grinned. ‘Just keeping the old lady on her toes.’ He gave his wife’s sizeable backside a hearty slap. ‘If there’s one thing your Uncle Gerry can teach you about women, son, it’s you’ve got to treat ’em mean to keep ’em keen.’
‘Still not getting the whole gay thing, is he?’ Tom muttered to me.
‘He’ll get the hang of it when you meet someone.’
‘Heh. At the rate I’m going he’ll be waiting a while.’
‘Any news then, kids?’ Sue asked in a gentler voice.
‘Nothing since we saw you last,’ I said soberly. ‘Could be days, could be weeks. Nothing to do now but keep him comfortable.’
‘And how are you both feeling?’
‘It’s like… like we’re in some sort of hellish limbo,’ Tom said in a low voice. ‘I mean, we’re dreading it, obviously. But part of us just wants it to be over.’
He reached out to take my hand and I gave his fingers a firm squeeze.
‘Is that bad? To feel that way about it?’ I asked Sue, too aware of the pleading note underpinning my tone.
‘It’s not bad,’ she said softly. ‘You don’t want to see him hurting. We’ve been just the same.’
‘You look knackered, the pair of you,’ Gerry said, radiating concern. ‘You sure he wouldn’t be better off in the hospice now he needs round-the-clock care?’
‘No. He’s not going there.’ Tom looked almost fierce. ‘He wanted to be at home when he – when it happened. That’s what he said so that’s what’s going to happen.’
‘He wouldn’t want you making yourselves ill over it.’
‘You think we’d be any different if he was in the hospice?’ I grabbed my phone off the table and quickly scanned the screen, just to make sure Dahlia, Dad’s nurse, hadn’t texted. ‘That’d be worse. Knowing we couldn’t be with him straight away if he wanted us.’
‘Fair enough, petal,’ Gerry said gently. ‘You know what’s best. If we can do anything, just let us know.’
There was silence for a moment, everyone staring into their pints.
I was 18 when Dad was diagnosed and barely 20 when he’d found out the cancer was terminal: not much more than a kid, trying to prepare myself for the loss of the second parent in my young life. But nothing, nothing had prepared me for the daily agony that was the very end of the end. It was good of Gerry and Sue to drag us out and try to take our minds off it for an hour or two.
‘Well, he wouldn’t want us moping,’ Gerry said at last. ‘We brought you out to cheer you up, not make you cry.’ He lifted his pint. ‘Tell you what, here’s to absent friends. My best mate Phil, as good a lad as ever drew breath, who never cheated at pool when he thought anyone was looking and never dodged his round when he thought you were too drunk to notice he’d only got you a half. Wish you were here, mate.’
‘To Dad,’ we echoed, clinking glasses.
We went quiet for a minute, each alone with their memories.
‘So how’s the maypole dancing, Gerry?’ I asked after a while, summoning a bit of cheerfulness to lighten the mood. ‘Will the farm be extra fertile this year or do we need to sacrifice Tom in a giant wicker man?’
Gerry shot me a look. ‘It’s morris dancing, young lady. The maypole hardly comes into it.’
‘Yeah, pull the other one, it’s got bells on.’
Sue groaned. ‘Do you know how many times you’ve done that joke?’
‘And still it never gets old.’
‘It bloody does, you know.’
I shrugged. ‘That’s only your opinion.’
Tom glared at me. ‘Oi. Did you just call me a virgin?’
‘Probably the closest we’ll get round here. You haven’t been out with a lad in nearly three years.’
‘Bloody hell.’ He knocked back a morose gulp of his pint. ‘The sad thing is, that’s true.’
‘It’s no good picking on him, Lana,’ said Sue. ‘I don’t see you going out with many boys. What about that young chef with the punk-rocker hair your dad likes?’
Tom snorted. ‘Deano?’
‘That’s the one. Phil was always full of him.’
‘I’m all right, thanks,’ I said. ‘Deano’s lovely but he’s about 99 per cent whacko. Not for me.’
‘What about the band then? You must meet some pretty trendy young men there.’
I laughed. ‘Egglethwaite Silver’s not Oasis, Sue. There’s only three of us under 50.’
‘Seems to me you’re past the point where you can afford to be picky. It’s been over a year for you as well.’ Sue paused to take a sip of her pint. ‘What was his name, the bike man?’
‘I don’t know who you mean.’
‘Come on, you remember. That cyclist you went out with who never called you.’
‘No, I don’t remember. I don’t remember Stewart McLean at all actually.’
Tom drew a zip over his lips. ‘Nix on the S-word, Susan. We don’t mention that guy.’
‘Well, it’s time our Lana got back out there if you ask me.’ She skimmed down my body. ‘What size are you now, love?’
I winced. Ok, so I’d gained a bit of weight in the last year. Caring for Dad, it’d been too easy to grab a ready meal or some restaurant leftovers before I took over from Tom for the evening watch. Still, I was far from an unhealthy size. Bloody Sue, she always had to ask.
‘Mind your own business.’
‘Mmm. You want to come to Slimming World with me?’
‘I don’t need Slimming World. I just need to look after myself a bit, that’s all.’
Gerry shook his head. ‘I don’t know why you girls can’t let yourselves be. Nothing wrong with a bit of jiggle. Gives us fellers something to hold on to.’ He leaned back to cast an appreciative look at his wife’s backside.
‘I should’ve filed for divorce the day he grew that bloody moustache,’ Sue muttered.
‘So any news from the village society this month, Gerry?’ Tom said, diplomatically changing the subject. ‘Has the Egglethwaite knicker thief been caught yet?’
‘Nope. The Knicker Nicker’s still on the loose.’ Gerry took a long draft of his pint. ‘To be honest, I’m glad. That’s the only excitement we get in those meetings. Otherwise it’s just planning permission for sheds and what type of paper to use for this year’s newsletter.’
‘Why did you join then?’ I asked.
‘Oh, you know. Do my civic duty, look out for farmers’ interests. Fill your dad’s spot when he couldn’t manage it any more,’ he said. ‘Boring as shite though. No word of a lie, we spent half an hour in the last meeting looking at yellow Dulux swatches. Talk about watching paint dry.’
‘Why, are they doing up the Temperance Hall?’
‘No, they’re after getting in on a bit of this Tour de France publicity. You know, the Grand Départ? It’s in Yorkshire next year.’
‘It’s not coming near here though, is it?’
‘Dunno, the route’s not been announced yet. The society thought it’d be good to show support though. The least we can do is get one of those yellow bikes up outside the Temp.’
I fell silent, staring into my Guinness while the conversation moved on. As the alcohol hit my tired old brain, an idea started to form.
‘Lana?’ Gerry said. I looked up, realising he must’ve asked me a question.
‘Hmm?’
‘You all right, petal?’
‘Yeah. And why shouldn’t it anyway?’ I murmured, half to myself.
‘You what?’
‘Why shouldn’t it come here as well as anywhere?’
Sue frowned. ‘What on earth are you dribbling about, girl?’
‘The Grand Départ. Why shouldn’t it come through Egglethwaite? We’re as good as the next Dales village, aren’t we?’
‘We’re no better than the next Dales village either,’ Tom said. ‘Three farms, a pub and a cobbled street is about what it boils down to for us. What’s so hot about that?’
‘Setts,’ Gerry said.
‘What?’
‘They aren’t cobbles, they’re setts. Broader and flatter.’ He shook his head. ‘Everyone gets that wrong.’
Tom waved his hand dismissively. ‘Cobbles, setts, badgers, who cares? What I’m saying is there’s a million villages like ours. What’ve we got to make them choose Egglethwaite?’
I looked around the Sooty Fox, filled with villagers laughing and chatting over their weekend pints.
‘We’ve got us,’ I said. ‘The village might be two-a-penny but the people are pretty special. That’s what Dad always says.’
Sue looked doubtful. ‘You can’t cycle on people, Lana. They’ll want sweeping landscapes, gorgeous views. Stuff that makes good telly.’
‘We’ve got that,’ I said, warming to my subject now. ‘The view from Pagans’ Rock – the viaduct. The moors. We’ve got it all, guys! Why shouldn’t it be here? It has to go somewhere.’
Gerry was frowning. ‘No offence, but what’s in it for us? I don’t fancy my farmland overrun with tourists, ta very much. It’ll upset my sheep.’
Sue tutted. ‘Sod your sheep. There’s more to life than bloody Swaledales, Gerry Lightowler.’
‘Spoken like no true farmer’s wife, lass. And I’ll be telling them you said that, too.’
‘Why do they call them farmers’ wives?’ Tom asked.
‘Because they’re married to farmers.’ Gerry rolled his eyes. ‘Kids.’
‘Yeah, but Sue’s a farmer too, isn’t she? Why aren’t you a farmer’s husband?’
‘Well, because…’ Gerry stopped, looking perplexed. ‘Dunno.’
I shook my head at Tom. ‘See, you’ve introduced him to feminism now. His poor Yorkshire head might explode.’
Sue glared at me. ‘Oi. No one insults this old man but me.’
‘Well you certainly do it plenty for the lot of us,’ I said. ‘Look, we’re getting off the point. What about the Tour? Honestly, I really think it’s worth looking into.’
‘It’s a nice idea, but really, Gerry’s – well, something not approaching wrong,’ Sue said. ‘It’d be a lot of hassle for not much return.’ She nudged her husband. ‘Best you’re getting, lad.’
‘It’d be a massive boon for businesses though, all that tourism. Reckon you could pitch it to the society, Gerry?’
‘Hmm. Not convinced, love, sorry.’
‘But come on, guys. We could make history here!’ I could see Gerry still hesitating and put on my best puppy-dog eyes. ‘For me, eh? Dad’d want you to.’
Gerry took a meditative suck on his pint. ‘Well, I’ll bring it up,’ he said at last. ‘But don’t get too carried away, Lana. For all we know the route’s already decided. We’ll see what happens.’
My phone buzzed on the table. I fumbled for it and hastily swiped at the screen.
‘Oh God,’ I whispered. ‘Tommy, we need to get home. Right now.’